


The Adventure of the Red-Hatted League

by astudyinrose



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: First Kiss, John and Sherlock go to a Red Sox game, Love Confessions, M/M, Mary is gone don't worry, Pining, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Sexual Tension, post series 3, technically it's for a case but this isn't really a true case fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-04
Updated: 2016-09-04
Packaged: 2018-08-12 21:17:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,250
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7949488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/astudyinrose/pseuds/astudyinrose
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>John and Sherlock travel to Boston and go to a Red Sox game at Fenway park. It's for a case, allegedly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Adventure of the Red-Hatted League

**Author's Note:**

  * For [scullyseviltwin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/scullyseviltwin/gifts).



> This fic is for Leslie, whose love of Boston and the Red Sox pretty much eclipses everything. Happy Birthday, love.
> 
> Thank you so much to Allison, Darcy and Fabi for your help on this, especially Allison for the Boston-pick!

 

John took the long way home from the shops, walking through Regent’s park in the dusk. It was late September, one of his favorite times of year. Even though the weather in London wasn’t that variable from season to season, the air had a feeling of change to it, and he felt alive and energized. 

It had been a couple of months since he’d moved back into 221B. It was like coming home, but as the old saying went, ‘you can never go home again.’ He’d changed irreversibly–he and Sherlock _both_ had–since they’d last lived together. Sometimes it felt as though they were tiptoeing around each other, and the ease with which they had once each seamlessly integrated into the other’s life was lost. But at least now they were together again, in their flat. He had to hope that they would get back to the way they were eventually, even though it would never truly be the same as before Sherlock had fallen.

The front door was unlocked, as it usually was when Sherlock was home, and John took the steps up to the flat two-time. “Sherlock,” he called out, putting his jacket up on its hook. He could hear Sherlock talking to someone in the next room.

John poked his head in. “Client?” he asked. 

Sherlock didn’t turn, waving him off with one hand as he continued speaking. “So you haven’t been paid in how long?” he asked the man on the screen, scribbling on a note pad. 

John gave up, going over to the fridge to put away the food.

The man on the screen shifted in his seat. “A couple of weeks. Their office is closed, I went yesterday to see. There was a sign saying ‘The Red Sox Red-Hatted League is officially disbanded.’ When I called Spaulding on the number he gave me, he said there was a minor delay, but that I would still be getting my checks in the mail.” John raised an eyebrow, noting that the man had an American accent.

“Very peculiar,” Sherlock said in a bored voice that meant he was no longer listening. “I’ll be on the next plane.”

“Wait. Really?” the man on the screen said. “You’re taking my case?”

“It holds some features of interest.”

“Wow, I didn’t think you would actually come. If you don’t mind me asking, is that man behind you Dr. Watson?” 

“Yes.” Sherlock snapped the screen shut and kept scribbling on the pad.

“Case on, then?” John asked, walking over to his chair and sitting down.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, his tone clipped. He didn’t offer any further information, reopening his computer and starting to type furiously.

“Okay.” John didn’t bother to push further; his buoyant mood was too high to be sunk by Sherlock’s taciturnity. He picked up the mystery novel he’d been reading and let himself settle into his chair, enjoying the warmth of the fire as the wind whistled outside. 

After about ten minutes, Sherlock spoke again, as if they had been having a conversation the whole time. “You still have a passport, don’t you? Mycroft can get you one pretty quickly, if not, but it would be better if yours were still valid.”

John frowned. “Yes, but–”

“I’m asking Mycroft–well, really, Anthea–to book the tickets and the hotel. We can’t use the Lear jet this time because he’s taking it to Morocco to mediate some kind of clandestine peace talks between Pakistan and India–”

“Sherlock–” John tried to interrupt, but Sherlock barreled on.

“We will have to take a red eye, there’s nothing for it, they are playing tomorrow night and then they are away for a whole week and a half. Then it’s the playoffs. Besides, I want to check out the office–” 

“ _Sherlock!_ ”

Sherlock blinked at him a few times. “What?” he asked.

“Since you’re not going to bother asking me if I want to go, can you tell me where we are going, at least?” 

Sherlock smiled. “Boston.”  

 

 

* * *

They were waiting to board the plane at Heathrow less than four hours later, and Sherlock was… well… chipper. There was no other word for it. He had an honest-to-god bounce to his step.

“Are you sure this doesn’t involve a murder?” John asked suspiciously.

“What? No,” Sherlock said, his brow crinkling a bit. “Why?” 

“You just seem so…” John trailed off, realizing he was going to finish that sentence with ‘ _happy’._ Nervous, maybe, but happy.

“Anthea booked us in first class, apparently,” he said instead, looking at the ticket. 

“So she did.” Sherlock grabbed his messenger bag from the seat next to him, holding his Belstaff over one arm. “That will make the ride a bit more enjoyable, to be sure.”

John followed him down the walkway, wondering what he’d gotten himself into this time. As per usual, Sherlock had only explained the broad strokes of the case to him, leaving out the details, which was aggravating to say the least. Still, John was tingling with anticipation and excitement at the prospect of a case in a far-off country. He’d been to the states a few times, but never to New England.

Once they got to their row, John took out his laptop before stowing his carry-on in the bin above him. Sherlock was already settling into his seat, pulling his coat over him. 

“Would you like something to drink?” A pretty blonde flight attendant asked John as he was sitting down. “Champagne? Cocktail?” 

“Scotch would be great,” John said. 

“And would you like anything else at the moment?” the attendant asked, her eyes flicking downward flirtatiously.

“No, thanks.” John opened his laptop as a way to end the conversation, and she took the hint, leaving to get his drink.

“Getting drunk on a six hour red eye flight is highly inadvisable,” Sherlock muttered, his eyes already closed.

“Oh, shut it,” John said cheerfully. Sherlock’s mouth quirked upward into a slight grin.

The flight attendant returned with his drink, touching his arm and asking him a few questions, but she soon left again once it became clear that John was not going to flirt back. 

John settled in, working on a write-up of a minor case they had solved a couple of weeks before. After they took off and he’d made some headway, he glanced over at Sherlock, who appeared to be dozing. Since no one else was in their row, John let himself look his fill.

Sherlock’s head was turned slightly toward the window, his long neck was stretched out. John felt his tongue dart out to lick his lower lip, wondering what it would be like to kiss the delicate skin there. Sherlock’s hair was beautifully tousled as ever, but he’d ruffled it before he’d settled into his seat, making him look younger, more boyish. His long eyelashes were fluttering against the pale skin of his cheeks, and he was just so… effortlessly beautiful. 

John blew out a deep breath, looking away, and took a deep drink of scotch.

He didn't allow himself to deny it anymore: he’d been in love with Sherlock for so long that it was almost like it had settled into his DNA. He had lived with it uncomfortably before Sherlock fell of the roof of Barts, but he _had_ known it then, deep down. He’d tried to keep dating in spite of it, because he’d just been too damned scared to do anything about it. Once Sherlock had come back, he’d been too hurt... and there had been Mary. He’d essentially convinced himself that Sherlock could never love him back, at least not the way John loved him.

The whole Magnussen ordeal had changed that. The way Sherlock had looked at him right before he’d pulled the trigger had given him a glimmer of hope, despite the fact that it was paired with deep despair. On the tarmac, John had held Sherlock’s bare hand for what felt like the last time, and he’d had to physically stop himself from pulling Sherlock into a kiss right then and there. 

When he’d learned that Mary had been Moriarty’s second all along, and that the baby hadn’t been his… he had expected to feel grief, or soul-crushing guilt. Instead he’d been consumed by the anger he felt toward Mary for her deception, and toward himself for falling for it. It wasn’t until long after it all, after several months, that he’d felt relief.

Now, for the first time since before Sherlock had been dead, they were clear of any obstacles, real or imagined. He was free to tell Sherlock how he felt, finally, yet he hadn’t. He told himself he was just waiting for his moment, for the right time, whatever that could be. 

He glanced at Sherlock again, despite trying not to. Sherlock was the person who anchored him to life, the person who had saved him in ten thousand different ways. Sherlock had to know how he felt by now, didn’t he? He was the most observant person on the planet, he must know that John’s love for him had gone far beyond the platonic and was well into the romantic.

If he _did_ know, though, he hadn’t said anything, which could mean he didn’t want John that way. John was the most important person in his life, and they would both do anything for each other, of that John was certain. But what if Sherlock simply didn’t want… _that_?

John sighed, frustrated. The problem was, John _did_ want it, and he had repressed it for so long that it was eating away at him inside. He caught the eye of the flight attendant again, signaling for another scotch. It was going to be a long flight.

 

  

* * *

John must have drifted off at some point–he probably shouldn't have had the third glass of scotch–because the next thing he knew the captain was telling them to put their seat backs up in preparation for landing at Boston Logan. He blinked his eyes open, realizing that he had slumped down in his seat and his head was resting on Sherlock’s shoulder. Sherlock was reading _Cosmo_ , his brow furrowed in concentration. The cover boasted that it included _“15 brand new ways to please your man!”_  

“Would you like anything before we land?” a different flight attendant, this one a brunette, asked him.

“Water, please,” John croaked, sitting up and rubbing his eyes.

Sherlock didn’t move or otherwise acknowledge the fact that John had been sleeping on him.

“Anything good?” John asked, nodding toward the magazine.

“Hmm.” Sherlock hummed in lieu of a reply, not looking up from the page.

He rolled his eyes just as flight attendant brought the water. “Ta,” John said, smiling at her. 

She nodded. “What are you and your boyfriend coming to the states for? Vacation?”

“Work, unfortunately,” John said, not even trying to correct her about their relationship. Sherlock never had, even in the early years. For what felt like the thousandth time, John couldn’t help wondering what that meant. _Is it that he thinks it’s ridiculous, or that it’s too close to the truth?_

The flight attendant smiled, completely unaware of his inner tension. “Well I hope you two have some time to see the sights when you’re not working. My partner loves Boston, she’s from there. She could tell you its entire history, especially about the Revolution. Oh, and you’ll need to stow that,” she replied, nodding to his computer.

“'Course,” he said, nodding. Once he had everything in place for landing, he lay back and closed his eyes, nursing his water. He could already feel the dehydration headache coming on.

“Told you the scotch was a bad idea,” Sherlock said.

John didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of a response, but he couldn’t help it. “Bugger off.”

Sherlock huffed a bit, and John couldn’t help grinning a little. They spent the remainder of the flight in companionable silence.

 

  

* * *

“The Ritz? Seriously?” John looked up in awe as they got out of the cab. It was very late because they had flown through the night but had arrived in a time zone that was five hours behind.

“Problem?” Sherlock asked, paying the driver.

“Ye-I mean, no, I just…” John shook his head. “I just can’t believe Mycroft is paying for all this. It’s not like we’re doing a case for him.”

“Maybe he just felt like treating us.” Sherlock shrugged as they walked in, his face inscrutable. 

John frowned, thinking. It all seemed so out of character for Mycroft, who rarely did something without expecting something in return.

Sherlock went to the front desk to check them in while John dealt with the bags, giving them to the bellboy. Keys in hand a few minutes later, Sherlock led him over to the elevators, once again seeming more… ebullient than usual. 

“Everything alright with the room?” John asked, as the doors slid closed.

“Mmm,” Sherlock hummed, unhelpfully, bouncing on the balls of his feet. 

They arrived on their floor and Sherlock led the way once again, opening the door to the room with customary flourish. Once inside, he didn’t even look around, dropping his carry-on bag and immediately taking out his phone, texting furiously. 

“ _What_ –” John was still standing in the doorway.

“Mycroft said this was the only room left on this short notice,” Sherlock said, not looking up from his phone. 

“Is this his idea of a joke?” John muttered under his breath, moving into the room and shutting the door behind him.

It was a lavish suite–it must have cost a _fortune_ , even for only two nights–with a living room, a fireplace, floor to ceiling windows on one side… and a California king-sized bed.

 _One_ bed. Which, obviously, they were going to have to share, unless one of them slept on the couch.

“We should get some sleep, I want to check out the Red-Hatted League Office before we go to the game at seven,” Sherlock said.

“Game?” John walked over to peek inside the enormous bathroom, which included a jacuzzi.

Sherlock gave him one of his withering _why are you being so intentionally slow_ looks. “A Red Sox game, John.”

“I thought it was just a simple case of someone ditching out on paying someone.”

“Hmmm.”

John leaned against the door to the bathroom. “This is all very cloak and dagger, Sherlock, but can you at least tell me a little about the case and who our client is?” 

Sherlock sighed, dropping his phone and ruffling his hair. “Our client, Wilson, is one of the section ticket takers for the Red Sox, but he needed some extra income to care for his sick wife. At the hot dog vendor’s urging, he applied for and was employed by the Red Sox Red-Hatted League to ‘keep score’ for two innings every game, the fourth and eighth. After several months they mysteriously disappeared and haven’t paid him for the last several games.” 

John tilted his head slightly to the side. “‘Red Sox Red-Hatted League’? Doesn’t exactly roll off the tongue, does it.” 

“They were only hiring men who worked at the stadium and had a rare 100th anniversary Red Sox hat, specifically a red one, which had never been washed. Which, essentially, meant that Wilson was the only hirable candidate." 

“Peculiar.”

“Very.” Sherlock lay down lengthwise on the couch, in his thinking pose, with his hands steepled under his chin.

John knew his cue; that meant Sherlock didn’t want to talk anymore for a while. “I’m just… I’m going to take a shower.” 

Sherlock nodded once, his eyes already closed. John went to the bathroom, turning on the shower to hot. It felt so good to stand under the spray, and even though his body thought it was about 8 am, he felt himself being lulled back into a sleepy state. He didn’t realize until he’d emerged that he didn’t actually have his sleeping clothes yet, since the bellboy had to bring up their suitcases.

He wrapped a towel around his waist before walking out of the bathroom. Sherlock was still lying on the couch in the exact same position he’d been in before.

“Bags here yet?” John asked.

Sherlock turned to look at him, and John could have sworn that his pupils darkened just a bit as his eyes flicked down John’s mostly nude form. But just as quickly, he was back in his thinking pose.

“By the closet,” he said.

Once John had put his sleeping clothes on, he looked at the bed again, feeling a bit uneasy.“Do you want…” he cleared his throat. 

Sherlock didn’t move or open his eyes. “If you want me to sleep here on the couch, I will,” he said. 

“No, it’s… no. There’s plenty of room for both of us. It would be silly.”

He slipped into bed, feeling the ache in his bones from the long night of travel they’d just endured. “Turn out the light when you’re done thinking,” John said, turning over and putting a pillow over his head.

  

 

* * *

The next morning he awoke to what sounded like an industrial lawn mower.

John winced, feeling dry-mouthed and jet-lagged, and extremely annoyed. He pulled the pillow more soundly over his head.

After a few more minutes of the noise, however, he realized that they were in the middle of a city. _How could there be a lawn mower?_

He blinked his eyes open and turned over, pushing the pillow off. The sound was coming from Sherlock, who was in the fetal position on the other side of the bed, clutching a pillow, hugging it to his torso. He was snoring extremely loudly and drooling a little bit.

It was incredibly endearing, and John simultaneously wanted to kiss Sherlock awake, and also punch him. He couldn’t help wondering how had he gone this long without knowing that Sherlock snored. Though, to be fair, he hardly ever saw Sherlock sleeping. When Sherlock slept in his room, he always had the door closed, so it was possible that John had just never heard him. And that time in Baskerville… Sherlock had hardly slept, and when he had, it had been in the comfy chair in the room, sitting up.

John glanced at the clock. It was already 11 am, and they definitely needed to get up.

“Sherlock.” John poked him, gently, but Sherlock just let out an even louder snore.

John moved a little closer. “Sherlock,” he said more loudly, shaking Sherlock’s shoulder a bit.

Sherlock’s breath stuttered and he blinked his eyes open blearily. For a moment, they just looked at each other.

“Time’s it?” Sherlock asked, his voice low and gravelly, which sent a small shiver down John’s spine. John realized that his hand was still on Sherlock’s shoulder, which was dangerous, but he didn’t want to move back.

“Gone eleven,” John said. “I didn’t know you snored,” he added, grinning.

Sherlock frowned. “I do not _snore_.”

“I felt like someone was drilling through my skull, but yeah, sure,” John said, grinning even wider at the horrified look on Sherlock’s face. “What, no one has ever told you?”

Sherlock’s eyes flashed with surprise, and something that almost looked like vulnerability. “No, because I _don’t_ snore,” he repeated.

“Keep telling yourself that, maybe it will come true.” John had to physically stop himself from pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s temple. Being in bed with him was intoxicating, not in a sexual way, necessarily, but in an intimate way–in a way he’d been longing to be with Sherlock for far too long. He was so in love with him that it felt like his chest was caving in with it.

Sherlock scowled at him, and John couldn’t look at him for another second, because he was sure that his own expression was giving him away. Needing to put some distance between them, John swung his legs out of bed and picked up the phone. 

“I’m feeling self-indulgent; want any room service?” he asked. 

“Tea,” Sherlock said, turning over and curling around the pillow again.

John ordered them both breakfast–including some food for Sherlock, hoping he could make him eat something–and walked into the bathroom.

As he brushed his teeth, John thought about Sherlock’s expression when he had asked whether anyone had ever told him that he snored, and couldn’t help wondering if that meant Sherlock had never slept next to someone before.

 

 

* * *

Once they’d eaten breakfast and gotten dressed, was almost one in the afternoon. The “office” they were looking for, Sherlock informed him, was in a small shop near Park Street T stop, only a short walk from their hotel. They walked along the Common for a bit until they turned down a small street that connected two bigger streets. The crooked alleys that veered off in strange angles reminded him of London, which had also grown during the times before cities were laid out in brick patterns. 

“It’s this one.” Sherlock stopped in front of a dingy storefront which had once been a barber shop.

There was nothing to confirm that they were in the right place other than the sign on the front, which proclaimed that “The Red Sox-Hatted League” had officially been disbanded. 

John tried the door. “Locked.”

Sherlock took out his lock pick. It was midday on a Friday, and there were plenty of passersby on the busier streets on either side, but there were no people on their street.

“Is that a good idea?” John asked. 

“Probably not,” Sherlock said, as the latch gave way. He ducked in quickly, leaving the door open for John, who looked around briefly before following.

The inside of the so-called office was dingy, and mostly empty. There was no furniture, other than a desk and chair in one corner, and a single land line phone. Sherlock started shuffling through some papers on the desk as John looked in the back. There was a loo, which looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the last century, and some stacks of order receipts. 

“Nothing back there,” he said, returning to the main room.

Sherlock was squinting at a piece of scratch paper. “EDR, 57. NVO, 104. ABT, 201.”

John looked over his shoulder at the paper. “Are they initials?”

“Possibly… but the numbers…” 

“How do you know it has to do with the Red-Hatted thing?”

“It’s on their letterhead.”

“So what does it mean?”

“Don’t know,” Sherlock said, chewing his bottom lip. “I don’t like not knowing.”

After contemplating the paper for a moment longer, Sherlock sighed, pocketing it.“There’s nothing else of use here,” he declared, stalking back out toward the street, and John followed at a trot.

“Well, this didn’t take long. What should we do until the game starts?”

Sherlock tugged his scarf a bit, loosening it. “Erm. I suppose we could… see the… sights?”

“Sights?”

“I hear there’s a lot of history in this area. Some kind of Path of Liberty, or something. I believe there’s even some kind of massacre involved.” 

John raised an eyebrow at him. “The Freedom Trail? You mean the Freedom Trail.”

Sherlock shrugged. “Semantics." 

John did a bit of a double take, realizing what Sherlock was saying. “Wait… _you_ … want to walk the Freedom Trail? Like a tourist?”

Sherlock looked a bit affronted. “So what if I do?”

“Nothing, nothing, it’s….” _Adorable_ , John thought, but didn’t say.

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Forget it.” He turned on his heel and started walking toward Park Street.

“Oh come off it,” John said, jogging to catch up with him. “Let’s do it. It sounds fun, actually.” He took out his phone, googling a map of the Trail.

Sherlock stopped, looking out at the street, obviously trying to seem nonchalant.

“It starts near here, actually,” John said, looking up. “You planned this, didn’t you?”

“Not in the slightest,” Sherlock huffed, not looking him in the eye.

 

* * *

They spent the rest of the afternoon going to historical sites, something that John would never have thought Sherlock would enjoy. It turned out he was just as fascinated by places where people died long ago as he was by murders in the present day.

At one point, Sherlock got in an argument with an eight year old girl (who was wearing an American Flag hat) about whether Paul Revere should be considered an Englishman or an American. The girl argued that he was was born on American soil and was part of the Revolution, and was therefore an American; Sherlock argued that technically had been born an English citizen as Massachusetts was still part of the colonies back then. John had to hide his face with his hand because he was grinning idiotically, dizzy with affection. 

When it was finally time to go to the game, they took the T to save their feet. They came up from Kenmore station to see droves of people in Red Sox paraphernalia all walking in the same direction.

They followed the flow of foot traffic over a bridge toward the park, passing dozens of restaurants and bars along the way. The park itself was smaller than John had imagined, but was just as he would have an imagined an old-time baseball park to look. It was old, very old, but seemed to have a lot of character to it. 

“So why do we have to go to a game?” John asked, once they were through security. “You haven’t actually told me.”

“I have to see what happens during the fourth and eighth innings. The innings where Wilson is distracted by having to keep score,” Sherlock replied, _sotto voce._

“What’s your theory?”

“Something to do with the letters and the numbers from the office,” Sherlock muttered.

They got to their section, where Wilson was currently checking tickets. He was a middle aged man with a mustache, somewhat portly, and he was wearing a filthy Red Sox hat. It must have been red at one point, but was now a dingy brown from never being washed.

“Sherlock Holmes!” Wilson said, shaking Sherlock’s hand enthusiastically. “Thank you so much for coming. I would never have thought you’d take a little case like mine.”

“Wilson, I presume,” John said, holding out his hand.

“Doctor Watson! I am such a fan of your blog. I used to read it religiously before you stopped posting as much,” he said, grinning as he shook John’s hand. 

“Thanks.” John was sure that his smile was a little tighter, and Sherlock must have noticed. 

“We will be sitting in your section for the duration of the game,” Sherlock said, changing the subject. “Just do what you normally do.” 

“Is there anything I can do to help?”  

“As I said,” Sherlock said slowly, looking irritated, “do what you normally do during games.”

“Right, right. Well. Enjoy the game.” Wilson nodded at them, turning to the next two people with their tickets.

They walked down the aisle to a row near the back of the section and sat down in their seats. John looked around the stands at all the people in their Red Sox hats and jerseys. The baseball players themselves were out on the field warming up, but the game hadn’t begun yet.

“So… we have to wait until the fourth inning to see… whatever it is we are going to see?”

“We want to look out for anything suspicious until then, but yes.” Sherlock was drumming his fingers against his thighs, obviously keyed up.

“Right.” John saw a beer vendor walking down the aisle, so he signaled him down. “Two beers please.”

“Who said I want one?” Sherlock said as John handed over the money and his ID. 

“Who said the second one is for you?” John raised an eyebrow at him, and Sherlock raised one back. 

John chuckled, handing him one of the metal bottles. “Live a little. One beer isn’t going to make it hard for you to catch… whatever it is you’re trying to see. Besides, it’s baseball. Beer is practically required.” 

Sherlock looked at him. “You watch baseball?” 

“Well, not really, but… before Clara, Harry dated an American woman. Virginia was a huge Orioles fan. They used to watch it all the time, so I did pick up some things. Especially the fact that beer and baseball are hopelessly intertwined.”

Sherlock looked like he was going to object again, but thought better of it, and took a sip from the cold beverage. John smiled, sipping his own beer. 

“So you know the rules?” Sherlock asked after a while.

“Don’t you? Isn’t it in your mind palace somewhere?” 

Sherlock shook his head. “If it was, I deleted it. Unnecessary.”

John explained the basics of the game as the warm-ups concluded.Eventually, the first pitch was thrown, and the game started in earnest. 

John had no idea what Sherlock was looking for in terms of the case, so he let himself just enjoy the taste of the beer, the feeling of the early fall breeze, and the slow cadence of the game. It was oddly soothing, though he’d never watched a baseball game before in person. There were only two or three people moving at a time, and most of the players were simply standing there. Overall, the sport was much less violent or exhausting-looking than, say, rugby or football.

Eventually, a hot dog vendor came down the aisle, and John flagged him down.

“I don’t want-” Sherlock started. 

“Hot dogs are also required at baseball games, according to Virginia,” John interrupted, handing one to Sherlock.

Sherlock looked at the hot dog a bit dubiously, but after a moment, he bit into it. “Interesting,” he said around his mouthful, sounding unconvinced. 

John, who had already eaten half of his, was about to point out that the hot dogs were bloody delicious. When he looked up, however, he saw that Sherlock had a glob of mustard on his upper lip, and the words caught in his throat. Sherlock lowered his gaze and took another bite, a bigger one this time. His plush lips wrapped around the hot dog, his eyelashes fanning out on his cheeks.

_Holy fuck._

“I think I need another beer,” John muttered, signaling the man who was walking down the aisle.

Sherlock seemed not to notice, thoroughly engrossed by eating his hot dog.

When the fourth inning finally started, Sherlock sat forward in his seat during the entire inning, watching their section instead of the game. John split his attention, trying to watch both, and by the time the inning ended and Sherlock sat back, he wasn’t sure if he had seen anything unusual.

“What’ve you got?”

“Not sure yet.”

The next few innings went by quickly, especially since John had to go to the loo, and the seventh inning was interrupted by a “stretch,” which consisted of the fans standing up to sing some ridiculous song. Sherlock didn’t stand, looking around at all the fans with something akin to incredulous distaste. 

During the eighth inning, Sherlock watched the section with more fervor than before. John tried to watch too, though again, he had no idea what he was looking for.

Suddenly, Sherlock stood up. 

“What? Did you figure it out?” John stood up too, trying to follow his gaze.

Sherlock pointed. “The hot dog man. Larry.” 

“What about him?”

“During the fourth inning he went to the tenth row, then to the fifteenth row directly after, even though there were people in the intervening rows who wanted hot dogs. And during those rows he gets their change from his left pocket instead of his right, where he has been getting it from the rest of the time.”

“And?”

Sherlock smiled, and his eyes lit up, in that way that meant he had solved it. John’s heart did a little flip-flop, seeing it. “And he’s doing it again this inning.” 

They ran down the aisle to Larry, who was selling hot dogs to a young couple.

“What the-” Larry started to ask, trying to pull back.

“I just need to check something,” Sherlock said cheerfully, and dug a hand in Larry’s left pocket, where there were several papers.

“Hey, you can’t do that,” Larry said, trying to grab the papers back.

“I think he just did,” John said, holding him back. “What is it?”

“More of the same kind of three or four letter combinations, with numbers,” Sherlock said. “They almost look like…”

As they were looking at the papers, two men, one in the tenth row and one in the fifteenth row, got up and started walking toward the exit, heads bent.

“John,” Sherlock said, and John was already running up the aisles to detain the two men.

“Stop!” John yelled, blocking their way. 

“What the hell are you doing?” One of the men tried to push past him, but he stood his ground.

By now, they were starting to cause quite a stir. Security personnel were coming down the aisles to meet them as Sherlock hauled Larry up to where John and the two men were standing.

“What is going on here?” the most senior security man asked.

“Investment bankers,” Sherlock said, looking at the two men.

“We are–I’m just going home–” one of them said, starting to sidle toward the exit, but John stopped him again with a glare.

“Arrest these men,” Sherlock said. “Larry too.” 

The security guard looked at Sherlock like he was insane. “What? Arrest them? What the hell for?” 

“Insider trading,” Sherlock said triumphantly.

 

 

* * *

It took a couple of hours to wrap up the case, talking to the Boston Police and giving their statements. It turned out that Larry had been the go-between for members of investment firms who had previously been flagged for white collar crime, so they couldn’t so much as meet in a coffee shop without the FBI trying to bug their conversations. The way they had devised to divulge which stocks their underground buyers should purchase was to hand them to Larry as they bought their hot dog, and he would hand it to the buyer as he gave them their hot dog. They had invented the Red-Hatted League, hiring Wilson alone, so that he would be distracted by keeping score of the game while they were transferring the papers. Sherlock had to explain this to at least five different people, in detail, and John was starting to feel sleepy, wondering why he had gotten that third beer. Finally, they were allowed to leave.

As they walked out of the park, Sherlock had a spring in his step, and his good mood and energy were infectious. When he suggested that they walk back to the hotel instead of taking a cab or Uber, John readily agreed.

They walked for at least half an hour, until eventually they came to the Boston Common, which was dark, but there were still a few people walking through the gates.

When they got to the bridge over the pond in the middle, John realized he didn’t really want to go back to the room quite yet. He touched Sherlock lightly on the arm, and paused, looking out over the black water. Sherlock stopped, standing next to him in silence. 

“So not a really difficult case, in the end,” John said eventually.

Sherlock snorted. “I had a feeling it was Larry the whole time. After all, he was the one who encouraged Wilson to apply for the ‘job’ at the League. I just wasn’t sure why they were distracting Wilson from what was going on in the section. To be honest, they probably needn’t have bothered, it’s not as if Wilson was really that observant anyway. They might have gotten away with the whole thing if they had just paid him like they were supposed to.” 

John looked at him. “So if you had your suspicions the whole time, why did we come here? Why take the case?”

Sherlock’s mouth twisted as he took his hands out of his pockets and rested them on the cool stone of the bridge balustrade, drumming his fingers a bit. 

“Would you believe that I fancied a Fenway hot dog?”

John laughed. “Not for a second.”

Sherlock cleared his throat. “Since you moved back in, things haven’t been.” He sighed, leaning his forearms against the stone and hanging his head slightly. “I feel like we haven’t gotten back to… the way we once were. I was hoping that if we went somewhere together, it might. We could,” Sherlock stuttered, much more inarticulate than usual. 

“You thought if we came to Boston we would feel more like a detective team again?” John felt his heart sink a little. Maybe Sherlock was just trying to make them more of a unit in their work partnership again, nothing more.

“No, not. I mean. Yes, but I…” Sherlock made a noise of frustration. “I wanted to do something for you. I... don’t normal people do this? Go to faraway places for fun? I didn’t think going to a beach in Bali was your style, and I don’t like heat anyway. And when Wilson called me, I thought… New England in the fall is supposedly nice, people are always going on and on about the leaves and whatnot, and you like watching sport…” 

John watched him for a moment, trying to make sense of what Sherlock had been saying, and finally he realized: Sherlock had tried to take him on a _vacation._ It had been a vacation for a case, but still. He’d tried to do this for John.

“Oh.” John said, unable to form more words than that.

“And I hoped… it’s a case, like old times, but also getting away from everything, where we could escape all the memories. Erm. Not that you _need_ to escape, I just, I thought maybe… I don’t know, I thought it might be… fun?”

John looked up at him, and the earnestness he saw in Sherlock’s eyes, the slight pinkish hue on his cheeks and nose from the early fall breeze... his heart just couldn’t take it anymore.

“God, I love you,” he blurted out.

Sherlock froze completely, blinking at him. “W-what?”

 _Shit_ , John thought. That had not been the way he’d meant to say it. He was used to hearing it in his own thoughts, but he hadn’t meant to actually _say it._

Sherlock was still blinking at him, his stare one of complete disbelief.

“I-I’m sorry, just…” John started to say, but Sherlock’s vulnerability stopped him. He couldn’t–he _shouldn’t_ –back down, not _again_ , not after everything they had been through over the past six years.

“Did you mean it?” Sherlock asked, his voice so quiet that only John could hear. 

“Yeah,” John said, finally, his mouth feeling so dry he tried to swallow twice. “Yeah, I did. Don’t you… don’t you know?” 

Sherlock shook his head, once. He looked so young, so hopeful, and John took the one step toward him that he had been waiting six years to take.

“I love you, Sherlock,” he said again, very deliberately, just to get rid of any lingering ambiguity. 

“John.” Sherlock’s voice was pleading, almost like a whimper.

John reached up to cup Sherlock’s cheek, and Sherlock’s eyes fluttered at the contact. “Alright?” he asked, still unsure.

“Of-of course it’s… I… you have no idea how long…” Sherlock stuttered. 

John felt his breath catch in his throat. Sherlock looked overwhelmed, but his eyes were fixed on John.

“I think I do,” John said, before he stepped closer, his hand sliding down to grasp the lapel of Sherlock’s coat and pulling him down into a kiss.

 At first, it was just closed lips, pressed together, and John couldn’t quite believe what he’d just done. But then, gloriously, beautifully, _impossibly_ , Sherlock sighed, and tilted his head, and parted his lips to kiss John back. 

John moved closer, feeling his heart pound in his chest, because it was happening, finally, after years of longing and wondering, of not knowing whether Sherlock felt the same… Sherlock was kissing him.

John slid his hand into Sherlock’s hair, something he’d longed to do so many times, pulling his head down so that he could slip his tongue into Sherlock’s mouth, tentatively, and Sherlock let out a small whimper. 

John’s legs were about to give out underneath him. The one thing that seemed to be anchoring him to the earth was the fact that Sherlock was trembling, his breath coming in short bursts.

They kissed slowly, and John felt arousal spiking deep down, but he didn’t want to push Sherlock too far too fast. He took a few more sips from Sherlock’s mouth, then pulled back, still holding Sherlock close.

Sherlock blinked his eyes open slowly, his cheeks flushed, and John was forcibly reminded of how he’d looked at him that morning, when he’d just woken up.

“What do we… what do we do now?” Sherlock asked, a bit breathless. 

“Hmm,” John hummed, running his thumb along the slickness of Sherlock’s lower lip. “I was hoping to take you back to that hotel room and break in that bed properly.”

Sherlock’s eyes widened, and for a moment John wasn’t sure if he had gone too far.

“We don’t have to, though, if it’s too fast, I’m just–”

“No,” Sherlock interrupted. “No, I… want to. I just… I had given up hope. That I could have that with you. I didn’t…” he cut himself off, pressing his lips to John’s again, and John could feel his yearning through his kiss.

“I know,” John whispered against his lips. “Me too.”

 

* * *

The next morning, John woke up to the sound of a lawn mower next to his head again.

He grinned, turning over to look at Sherlock, who was still naked from their activities the night before–and in the middle of the night–and was smiling in his sleep.

John let himself revel in the fact that he was allowed to watch Sherlock like this, and that he could actually kiss Sherlock awake this time, unlike the day before.

He reached out to smooth Sherlock’s hair a bit, and Sherlock shifted in his sleep, starting to wake up. John leaned down to kiss him, as he’d wished he could do so many times before.

“Morning breath,” Sherlock murmured, eyes opening.

“Good morning to you too,” John said, grinning so widely that his face almost hurt. He kissed Sherlock again, just for good measure, then kissed down Sherlock’s throat. 

“When do we have to check out?” he asked between kisses.

“I extended the reservation for an extra day,” Sherlock said breathlessly.

John looked up from kissing Sherlock’s stomach in surprise. “Mycroft doesn’t mind?”

Sherlock looked sheepish. “I… um.”

“What?”

“I was the one who made the reservations, not Mycroft.”

John stared at him in surprise for a moment, then moved back up to settle between Sherlock’s legs. “You mean… you planned this? Even the king sized bed?"

Sherlock bit his lower lip.“I was… hoping… but I didn’t know for sure that this would be the outcome.”

John chuckled, moving his hips a bit to brush their cocks against each other, making Sherlock inhale sharply. “You bad, bad man,” John said happily.

“Are you angry?” Sherlock gasped, lifting his hips up into John’s movements.

“Not even a little bit,” John said. “This means that we can try out that jacuzzi, too.”

Sherlock laughed, and John grinned, leaning down to kiss him deeply, wondering if he could possibly get any happier than he was in that moment.

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> This was based off the Adventure of the Red-Haired League by Arthur Conan Doyle as I’m sure you can tell.


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